My Father's Son
by schizophrenic-susurrus
Summary: In which Young-do reflects and thinks about running away from Tan, who in turn extends an olive branch and a promise that could mean something more.


I am the heir of one of the biggest hotel chains this side of the world, and life should be all peaches.

Except peaches don't grow in winter, and I am my father's son.

I trip, crush, destroy. I throw bodies over my shoulder, my grip on belts and waistbands tight. I lash out with the power given to me, both in shiny plastic cards and in lean, trained muscles. There is havoc and chaos no matter where I go.

The whirlwind of destruction wraps around me, mirroring my heart, and I feel less alone.

.~.~.

Here's what I know with certainty – rice cakes are pain, but they also make everything better.

Myung-soo always complains about how I would order for two and leave one side of the table untouched. It's masochistic, he says.

Eat something else, he says.

He doesn't understand that it's hurt in a good way.

.~.~.

I see grey everywhere I go. Grey and dreary and cold. The winter is unforgiving.

Or is it already spring?

Friends and mothers, they're one and the same. They love you and then they leave you.

I was fifteen when my mother taught me loneliness.

In the three years after that, I learned how to hate.

.~.~.

I was as surprised as anyone when love struck. Myung-soo thought he had it right when he pegged it to the new girl – he was, at first. She interested me in her plainness, like a pigeon in a crowd of peacocks.

She hated me, but soon after that something in her eyes changed. It felt like pity and her smile was curved with sympathy. I didn't care for that. It was much easier to understand when it was hate.

It is easier when the look in her eyes mirrors yours.

.~.~.

Friends and mothers, they're one and the same. They love you and they leave you, and they ignore you when they pass you by in the hallway.

They hold onto the hands of girls. Even when they're right in front of you, they throw you away.

You were a peacock. America turned you into a pigeon.

I am still my father's son, and you greet me with a fist to my face.

.~.~.

I'd always preferred peacocks.

.~.~.

Three years have passed and you're taller and tanner, but otherwise you haven't changed.

Except that you don't try anymore.

Your eyes are grey and dreary and cold, and they haunt me.

They are there when I'm washing dishes, when I'm on my bike. They are there right before I fall asleep.

The cold is unforgiving. I dig out the extra blanket from the closet.

.~.~.

She runs away and you run after her. She runs away again.

You tell me that I can have her. I punch you in the face.

This time, it's me who runs after her. She tells me to run after you instead. There's nothing to be afraid of, she says.

.~.~.

She lends me her mother. Some mothers are not like other mothers, her mother is not my mother.

My mother is a line of writing on a wall in a small snack shop. My mother is a name on a business card. My mother is courage and a hug and three years of tears. My mother is rice cakes for two.

It's hurt in a good way.

.~.~.

I stop running. I stop running after my mother, her, you. I have bigger things to worry about now, and the dishes won't be done if I'm always on the move.

I don't stop running away from myself though. I am my father's son, after all.

.~.~.

It's the middle of summer, but it's still grey and dreary and cold and sometimes I think it will never change. Even though I don't crave destruction anymore and my heartstorm no longer thunders.

You're off chasing your American dream again, and this time it's for real. This time, it's Business Management, Administrative Studies, Economics.

My would-have-been step-sister still keeps tabs on you, and she shares her notes with me.

I wash dishes in the kitchen during the day and tire myself out on the mats at night.

Some days it works. On days that it doesn't, I meet my mother at the snack shop for rice cakes.

It hasn't stopped hurting. I thought it would, but as it turns out, there is more to rice cakes than mothers.

.~.~.

You turn up a week before fall.

Your room is cold, you say. I tell you that's what hotels are, they're sterile and impersonal, big enough to house only a change of clothes.

I tell you that this is not California, to put on a thicker coat.

I don't tell you that I sleep elsewhere these days.

I don't tell you that I sleep very little.

I bring you to the bar, posturing a little before the bartender caves and opens a bottle of red wine. You roll your eyes and say that I haven't changed.

I shrug. Perhaps, I say.

.~.~.

You talk about my mother, of course you do. My dear sister would have been remiss if she hadn't fed you with morsels of my life, schemer that she is.

I talk about my mother, and tell you that you're forgiven. I ask after yours, the woman to whom I'd been callous and harsh and rude. I had asked for your forgiveness but I don't think you will ever give it.

I don't blame you. Our mothers are not the same and I am still my father's son.

.~.~.

I'll be back before the New Year, you say before you leave.

We don't talk about her.

.~.~.

It starts snowing two days before Christmas.

Bo-na throws another party and this time I'm invited. I briefly think about showing up.

.~.~.

It's Christmas Eve and there are a lot more dishes than usual. My rubber gloves are uncomfortably warm.

.~.~.

I knew you were there without looking up.

.~.~.

You didn't go to the party, you say.

I shrug and tell you I haven't changed.

My hands are slick with sweat and I strip off the gloves.

I bring you to my room and you smile to see Myung-soo's old photos on the desk. Bo-na and the secretary's son, Rachel and your favorite senior, you and her.

I don't tell you about the one under my pillow, of you and me, before everything.

Mothers. They're the source of trouble no matter where they are.

.~.~.

I stand by the window. It's night, forty-five floors down and a cityscape all around. The lights are bright.

Young-do, you say, for the first time in four years.

I look at your reflection next to mine and tell you not to say my name like that, but it only makes you say it again.

I tell you that I am my father's son, that our mothers are not the same, that friends always love and leave.

.~.~.

You say my name again.

.~.~.

I tell you where she is. I tell you to run after her. I tell you I don't want her.

I stop you before you say my name and tell you I don't want you either.

You tell me she said the same thing. Run after him, she said, you say.

I look at your reflection next to mine. I tell you I won't be caught, not even by myself.

You tell me you don't mind, as long as I let you run after me.

You lay a hand on my shoulder. I let it stay for now, and begin counting down to the moment you will leave.

.~.~.

I am my father's son, after all.


End file.
